


Evermore

by Talullah



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:49:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4565274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Goldberry shelters a lady on the run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evermore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solanaceae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/gifts).



> Many thanks to Elfscribe for the lovely beta.
> 
> Dear Solanaceae,  
> This story took a much darker tone than I had anticipated. I hope that it will not disappoint you too much.
> 
> [Disclaimer/Blanket Statement](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/profile)

**By the Withywindle, Cardolan, TA 1349**

Careful steps barely disturbed the gelid water, but Goldberry felt, more than heard, the soft footfalls, the tentative brushing against the silt and dried rushes. A faint taste of iron touched her lips. She licked them as she slowly moved underwater, hiding behind the dead remains of summer vegetation and the rocks at the edge of the pond. The water was dark, but she liked it. Winter was a long, welcomed pause from all the ruckus of summer children at play, women laundering without the frosty air hurrying them, lovers seeking shelter in the rushes for their coupling. Goldberry enjoyed all that, although she was not a full water being like her mother. She especially enjoyed all the birds that nested, hunted for insects and fish and splashed around the pond. Maybe that was her father side manifesting; she had never known him, though, and her mother had only dropped the vaguest hints at his identity.

The steps drew closer to the deeper water. Goldberry held her breath. There was a sinkhole at the centre of the pond and undercurrents would drag an unadvised child into the hole, through the caves beneath that linked the Withywindle and all the other water bodies of the region far away to the Baranduin. After such a ride, only a badly damaged corpse would be left for the parents. She held herself ready for a rescue, if needed. She waited, as she would much rather keep her presence forgotten than to remind the villagers of her existence. 

The visitor, however, stopped walking. After a few moments, a deep, ragged sigh, almost a sob, embittered the air. Goldberry plunged forward through the water just in time to watch a cloud of fabric, silver, green and blue falling down toward the sinkhole.

Fast as an otter, she cut through the water and tried to hold the figure against the pull of the current. It was a woman, a young, strong woman, who struggled against Goldberry’s grip. Her frame was light but she weighed far too much for her size. Goldberry caught her by the waist and pulled, and pulled, her heels pushing against the bottom, hurting as her elbow hit a sharp stone, until she finally yanked the woman into shallow water.

Both stood, Goldberry panting, the woman coughing and wheezing as her lungs expelled the water she had inhaled. When she finally got her breath, she lifted her head and drew her black hair from her face. Her grey eyes were pure steel when she looked at Goldberry.

“Witch!” she spat with venomous rancour.

Goldberry was dumbfounded. “Why? I don’t understand,” she said to the woman’s back, as she trudged away.

The woman tripped and fell to her knees. As she tried to rise, Goldberry saw the outlines of stones in the pockets of her dress. The sinkhole would have been enough to take her, but this woman had wanted to make sure.

“Why?” Goldberry repeated, reaching for the woman. “What could be so bad?”

The woman turned and her mouth formed a word, but the sounds of hooves and barking dogs in the distance froze her in place.

“They are coming,” she gasped, looking around her, terrified. She tried to move back to the deeper waters but Goldberry pulled her to the mass of dried reeds behind them. They hid behind the decaying vegetation, listening as the sounds grew closer. A fallen tree trunk provided cover for their heads, and Goldberry stirred the silt from the bottom with a flick of her hand, making the water darker and murkier even, to obscure the brightness of the woman’s dress. They waited quietly, with only the top of their heads lurking above the water. The woman’s lips started turning blue and she shook violently but she made no sound as the dogs sniffed the margins and two horse riders cantered around the pond, stopping here and there for better scrutiny.

It was only when her pursuers left that she let out a ragged sigh and her teeth started chattering. Goldberry noticed how her fingers had turned a ghostly white and her skin had grown too pale. Those of the race of men were not hardy to the cold, she kept forgetting. She led the woman out of the water, holding her by the hand and sometimes by the waist, forcing her to keep moving.

“They will come back,” the woman stammered.

“I can protect you,” Goldberry said. “Come.” She walked toward her little house, an abandoned ruin deep in the woods.

“The dogs will smell me out,” the woman said, as they threaded the thin, winding path.

Goldberry shook her head. “No, they won’t.” Branches, leaves and vines closed behind them with a soft rustling.

The woman startled. “You really are a witch,” she said, fearfully.

“They call me that, in the village, yes,” Goldberry replied. “I find it endearing. Amusing, sometimes.”

They reached the house. Goldberry opened the door and let the woman in.

“Do you have a name?” Goldberry asked, as she kindled the embers into a small fire. The woman sat by the hearth, clearly craving all the warmth she could get.

“Won’t they see the smoke?” she asked.

“Probably. But do not worry. You are safe here. Trust me. Name?”

“Fíriel,” the woman said, shaking her head.

“That’s pretty. I am Goldberry.”

She led Fíriel to the alcove and helped her out of the dress. There was a silver sash that cinched the many layers of fabric around Fíriel’s waist, held by a brooch set with blue stones, many-shaded like flax-flowers or the wings of blue butterflies. Goldberry carefully removed the jewel and unwrapped the sash, as Fíriel’s hands were shaking too hard. Then she pushed back from Fíriel’s shoulders an outer robe of heavy green silk, a thing of beauty conjuring still waters, letting it fall to the floor. It was followed by two other layers, of robin’s egg blue and of the faintest dusk sky blue. There was at last a chemise of the finest cotton that had to be pulled over Fíriel’s head.

Fíriel stood naked before Goldberry, still shaking and covered in goosebumps. She tried to cover her breasts, hesitating between modesty and ridiculousness. Goldberry smiled, until she saw the marks of fingers and the painful shapes of a belt buckle, bruised and burnt into Fíriel’s pale skin. Swiftly she picked a linen shift from her things. Before Fíriel put it on, Goldberry wrung her long black hair and twisted it into a knot. When Fíriel was dressed, Goldberry placed a shawl over her shoulders and led her back to the common room. She set a plate of cookies on the table and set the kettle on the fire.

“The house looks terrible, from the outside,” Fíriel said, after a few moments. “But it is actually quite cosy inside.”

Goldberry smiled. “There’s a man who comes by now and then and does a little fixing.”

Fíriel smiled. “A beau?”

Goldberry giggled. “He wants to be one.” She sat by Fíriel, pouring the hot tea for both of them.

“Drink up. You must be feeling very cold, still.”

Fíriel avidly took the cup in her hands and whispered a ‘thank you’ at Goldberry’s offer. She sipped the tea, grimacing when it burned her tongue, but she quickly drank the rest of it.

“Chamomile and _athelas_ ,” Goldberry said. “Good for the body and the soul.”

Fíriel lowered her head to her cup and inhaled. “ _Athelas_. My forefathers brought it over,” she said.

“Númenorean?” Goldberry asked. “You have occupied the land quite thoroughly. Before you, the other men…” she let her mind wander into the past. “The other men were quite lovely people,” she finished.

Fíriel sat intently looking at Goldberry. “And you,” she asked at last. “Are you from the West?”

Goldberry shook her head. “I am from this land as much as you. I was born here. My mother, though, has seen the light of the two trees, long ago.”

Fíriel’s eyes widened. “But you are not elfish,” she said, as if thinking aloud. “And you positively glow and your dress dried even before we reached the house. Are you… Are you one of the powers?” Realizing the import of what she was saying, Fíriel rose to her feet and bowed. 

Goldberry chuckled. “Those you refer to are my kin, yes, but I am a mere… what is the word you use? Sprite? I like that word. Bubbly. But enough about me. Why are you running from those men? Who are they?”

Fíriel looked at Goldberry suspiciously and bit her lip.

“I could have given you up to them, could I not?” Goldberry pointed out.

“True,” Fíriel said. She paused for a moment, looking at her cup. “I recently was betrayed by my best friend. It is hard to find trust to give…”

Goldberry nodded. Her mother had told her how wicked the world could be, but she had never had much interest in the lives of men or elves or even her own kind.

Fíriel looked into her eyes, interrupting her thoughts. “Can I trust you?”

Goldberry nodded. “You can.”

“And that man, who comes over?”

“Tom? Oh, you can trust Tom – he is living kindness, but he will not be back so soon.”

Fíriel nodded in assent. “Did you hear of King Tarandil’s passing?”

Goldberry shook her head. She had heard the village bells ringing madly, perhaps in the late spring, but she had not sought to understand the news from the chatter of the women washing in the river.

“King Tarandil was my uncle and the last male descendant of Isildur.”

Goldberry nodded. Isildur, she had seen once and many had talked and sang about him.

“He died without a son. The noble men of Cardolan assembled to elect a leader. It was a dirty business, but I was left alone. As you can see, I am old and I am ugly.”

Goldberry lifted an eyebrow and looked more intently at her guest. She had seen a pale, dark-haired girl before. She had not noticed the fine lines around her eyes or how the corners of her mouth were starting to sag. Her face was thin and her nose perhaps a little long and the complexion dullish. Still, she was not old, nor ugly.

“They elected Orodril, a lord from the north, to protect our borders, but the King Argeleb of Arthedain did not recognize him as a rightful ruler, because of his lack of royal blood. It was then that the council decided that I should wed him. I am the last one in Cardolan with the blood of Isildur, and through him, of Elros.”

“But why did they not have you as queen, then?” asked Goldberry.

Fíriel bitterly laughed. “They blame the downfall of Elenna on the queens. Ancalimë turned her back to the elves, Telperiën stuck her head in the sand, Vanimeldë was stupid and vain, and Míriel was too weak and came too late. Cardolan thinks itself too good to have a ruling queen. And, frankly, I am not sure I am up to the task.

“What happened, then?” Goldberry asked.

“Orodril is depraved. I was willing to be his bride, for the sake of the country, but the closer the wedding date came, the more I learned of his character and feared for myself and for Cardolan. For it is true that he is a skilled warrior, but it is also true that he is a violent, corrupt man.”

“And you ran away and tried to kill yourself because of that?”

Fíriel bitterly huffed. “Do you need more? Do I have to tell you that when I tried to dissolve the engagement, he struck me and dragged me by the hair into the main hall for everyone to witness? Do I need to tell you that he-” Fíriel interrupted herself and let out a ragged breath. “I fled Tharbad for fear of my life. I tried to seek refuge in Arthedain, but it is nigh impossible to pass when the frontier guard wears my lord’s colors. Rhudaur returned me in shackles, the one time I tried to go there. Four times, I tried. At each, the punishment was worse. This was the last chance.”

Goldberry took Fíriel’s hands in hers and kissed them. “You are safe here. I promise.”

“For how long? How long can your spells keep the hunters and the dogs away?” Fíriel’s lips trembled. “That was my wedding dress. I crafted a distraction for my maid on the morning of my wedding and I rode for two days until my horse lost a shoe. Everywhere Orodril has eyes and mouths and even in the places where I was pitied, the people were too afraid to help me.”

Goldberry nodded. “We will think of something.”

* * *

Goldberry ate only for the joy of the food and so her house was not prepared for a guest who drew her sustenance from proper meals. She brought fish from the pond and a few mushrooms. Fíriel hid inside, jumping at the slightest sound in the forest. At night, they curled up in Goldberry’s bed and talked until they fell asleep. Goldberry slowly ran her fingers over Fíriel’s scalp, drawing spirals and the ancient symbols her mother had taught her. At first, she had found Fíriel’s descriptions of her world entrancing, but the more she knew, the more she abhorred it. And so she drew the symbols for water and trees and sky and fire, untangling Fíriel’s thoughts, conjuring dreams of peace in the woods.

The riders cantered close to the pond and along the river. Even in the house, Goldberry could feel the thrumming of their hooves running up and down the Withywindle. Goldberry took Fíriel’s sash and let it slip with the current. It would stop further down the stream, close to the sandbank of the left margin. She trusted the villagers would tell the riders about the currents and the caves and the perils of the riverbed. They might reminisce about the child who had almost drowned, three summers ago, and remember there was a blonde witch who lived in the woods, but most likely the confusion spell Goldberry had woven then would still hold.

Still, she waited for them. Fíriel was right – her spells could not hold off forever someone who was truly determined. But she was right too – they found the sash and left, after a few last searches.

“Fíriel, I think it is safe to say that you are dead,” Goldberry jested one day. She had seen the first snowdrops emerging while she was out on the woods and had realized that winter was nearing its end and the riders had not been back.

Tom stopped by on occasion, bringing game and flour and sugar. He was gallant and made Fíriel smile. Goldberry watched, amused at the shy maiden, the glorious buffoon, and how they both searched her gaze from time to time.

One evening, in bed, Goldberry held Fíriel close while her friend sang her a lullaby in the harsh language of the lost island. Goldberry’s fingers traced idly the contours of Fíriel’s spine through the shift, and her mind wandered to the north, where she had come into being, at the springs of the Baranduin. Her mother had not come down in a long while and it was for the best. She would not approve of Fíriel. “If Erú had meant us to consort with them, he would have certainly let us know,” she would say. Goldberry smiled. Her mother would not approve of Tom either, a man of their own kind but whom she could not place with the earth or the air or the water. Perhaps he was of the distant Lord Irmo, whom she knew of only in name. But Tom never wanted to talk of serious matters and that suited her just fine.

“Did you listen at all?” Fíriel asked, softly chuckling into their shared pillow.

Goldberry raised her fingers to Fíriel’s thin lips and traced them slowly. “With my bones.”

Fíriel smiled and timidly lowered her eyes. They had shared a bed for a season, sleeping curled onto each other. They had been naked before one another’s eyes. They had touched and shared thoughts and feared and laughed together, but Fíriel seemed to always hold something back. Goldberry closed the gap and gently kissed her lips.

“Yes?” she asked, looking into Fíriel’s eyes.

Fíriel bit her lip and nodded. Goldberry kissed her again. She was surprised with the intensity that Fíriel kissed her back. They made love through the evening and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

* * *

Fíriel stayed with Goldberry all through the summer. Tom still stopped by, bringing victuals, playing music, fixing a few things in the house. At night, they sat together outside, gazing at the stars. Then he would be gone, leaving Goldberry and Fíriel in their cradle of green, to make love, eat, talk, sing.

Fíriel often worried. She would grow old while Goldberry lived in eternal youth. Would Goldberry love her then? Was Goldberry promised to Tom? Was her presence interfering with their love? What would they do for food once winter fell again? If Goldberry went away for a few days, did it mean she was suffocating her? And why did Goldberry like her, the too thin, aquiline-nosed, nearing forty woman. Goldberry hummed and looked at the sky and let Fíriel’s questions vanish into solemn silences or an admission of their futility. She could not understand how, a being that was allowed so little time on Arda could spend so much of it living in hypothetical futures instead of in the present, so within grasp.

Once, when the days were cooler again, and Fíriel dared visit the river for washing in the afternoon, she had arrived home running wild with fear. A woman had seen her by the water. For days after she had jumped at the slightest sound, hearing hooves clopping in the falling acorns and dog barks in the foxes’ gekkering. Then, she had settled down, once more. Goldberry talked with Tom, in hushed voices, trying to gather from him what to do. She didn’t know how to deal with Fíriel’s fears. Fíriel looked at her with hurt eyes, and seemed to cool towards Tom, until he won her over again. Still, these were passing episodes. Goldberry was still happy with her guest, friend, lover.

“You said you were betrayed by someone dear,” Goldberry once said, when they were sitting by the fire. “But you never told me that story.”

Fíriel, who had been laughing over Goldberry’s inability to place two stitches together on a chemise, suddenly turned serious.

“I forgot to think about her,” she said. “You filled my days with your presence.”

Goldberry dropped the needle and held her hand.

“You are not my first lady-friend,” Fíriel said, lowering her head.

Goldberry chuckled. “I figured as much.”

Fíriel did not join her humour. “As with my looks, my tastes were born defective. I do not know why I feel no shame with you. At court, it was something to be hidden. Everybody thought we were friends. I would have given my life for her.” She turned her face to the fire. Goldberry set aside her work and knelt by her feet, placing her head in Fíriel’s lap.

“Tell me,” she asked.

“There is not much to tell,” Fíriel said, running her fingers through Goldberry’s hair. “I asked her to flee with me, the first time I tried. She gave me away in exchange for a good marriage. She was the daughter of a lower knight and married a high lord of the south. I doubt you have heard of him. As punishment, Orodril made me be her bride’s maid.”

Goldberry sighed. “So much suffering, into such short lives. You amaze me, with your resilience.” She turned her head to face Fíriel. “You feel no shame because there is nothing shameful… here. Come.” They made for their bed and loved each other for a long time, until the fire died and the night was silent.

* * *

Just before Yule, Tom brought a small fir tree. Fíriel clapped her hands excitedly to Goldberry’s amused bafflement.

“It is one of their bizarre customs,” Tom explained. “Watch.”

Fíriel dug through her sowing basket, an early present from Tom, producing an assortment of colourful ribbons. She hummed cheerful tunes as she decorated the branches with elaborate bows. Unable to resist, Goldberry joined the fun, gaining Fíriel’s laughter at her feeble attempts. Tom went to the fireplace and made hot cinnamon tea.

Later, as they shared the goose Tom had brought and roasted, Goldberry felt an itch, a quaint feeling crawling up from the ground, through her legs, making her fingers thrum on the chair’s arm. She was being called, she understood, feeling a strange anticipation, perhaps the feeling that Fíriel described as fear. She rose to her feet, realizing she had forgotten to breathe for a few minutes. Tom and Fíriel looked at her but she ignored them. She walked to the door, then straight on until she was by the water.

A woman knelt by the waters’ edge softly calling, “Lady… lady. Lady, please hear.”

She looked up when Goldberry stepped from behind the trees. Her startle was visible. She lowered her eyes. Goldberry could see fear and bravery mingled. She could not understand why they would be fearful of her, men, but they were.

“You saved my child,” the woman said, swallowing. “I will never forget it. This is why I come to tell you that the king’s men are here again, looking for the princess. They are offering a great reward.”

Goldberry nodded. “Thank you.”

The woman walked backwards a few steps, then moved away, heading for the village so fast she almost ran.

Goldberry retreated to the path to her home. Her heart raced. She had never known that feeling. Fear. Fíriel, she said to herself, over and over. Hiding was harder in the winter. The villagers ignored her presence, normally, and she avoided them, but some knew of her dwelling. In the heart of winter it would be harder to hide. Her magic only touched living things, not the dormant nakedness of winter. And from the things Fíriel had told her about men, they could indeed take the reward and sell Fíriel’s freedom away. What should she do?

Tom met her halfway along the path. Goldberry confided what she had heard and her fears.

“The Huorns may help, my darling,” Tom said, holding her shivering arm, “and you may always count on me. We will daze and confuse these hunters if they do come our way.”

They headed to the house, to find Fíriel standing by the door, her face blanched of all colour. 

“I hear hooves, do not tell me that I am dreaming.”

Goldberry exchanged a worried glance with Tom. “Go inside, darling. Trust us.”

Fíriel demurred by the door, but heeded Goldberry’s advice when the sounds drew closer.

“So fast,” she whispered to Tom. “I would have thought it would have taken them longer…”

Tom sighed in reply. They waited, arms about each other’s waists, as they heard riders coming close, trampling the dead leaves and twigs of the forest floor.

“Ye know of a lady of the court? Is she in here?” the leader of the men rudely asked when they emerged from the path, their horses circling Tom and Goldberry. She felt the power currents underneath his skin, the warmth, ebbing and flowing until it felt very hot to be near him. Her own magic seemed to surface out of instinct. The horses felt it too, the tension in the air, and neighed. She could see three men struggling to keep the horses down. The dogs growled but dared not attack them.

“A lady of the court?” Tom asked, with laughter in his voice. “We are but a poor couple, living at the edge of the wood. Do you think this is the place for a high lady?” With a movement of his arm he indicated the house. Goldberry could see it though the men’s eyes, suddenly not the warm and cosy place that Tom had patiently rebuilt, but the ruin it had once been.

Despite the charm, the man was not easily dissuaded. “I have seen stranger things. You will not mind if we search inside,” he said, no hint of a question in his words.

“Oh, but I do,” Tom said. Goldberry gasped, as an invisible wave of energy left him, causing the horse to rear. Tom seemed larger and the men showed fear. Still, they had seen nothing out of the ordinary.

“Out of my way, you fool,” the man said, spurring the horse. The beast reared again, toppling him. Suddenly, it was hard to think, even for Goldberry, and the forest seemed darker and more menacing. The man got to his feet.

“Lady Fíriel! Lady Fíriel!” he shouted. “You cannot hide forever.” He hopped on his horse and the party hastily rode back to the path.

Tom let out a large, ragged breath, shaking his head.

“Are you well?” Goldberry asked.

“Yes, my darling,” he reassured her. “I take no pleasure in using magic like this. I did learn a few tricks from Old Man Willow, though,” he added, with a twinkle in his eye. “Now let us go inside and finish our dinner.”

Both returned to the house, to find the backdoor open and no sign of Fíriel.

“I told her to stay inside,” Tom said, alarmed.

“She ran.” Goldberry gasped, holding her sides. “She did not even take her cloak.” They both looked at the hook on the door, where hung the comfortable fox coat that Tom had brought Fíriel the previous winter.

After a moment of sheer paralysis, Goldberry ran out the door. She knew where Fíriel had gone. She ran and she ran but it she came too late. She willed the water to stop running, as Fíriel’s dark hair disappeared under the water, but the river was slow as rivers are. She dove in, swam forward swift as only her kind were, feeling more water than woman, but when she grasped Fíriel’s hand, it was slippery and cold.

For an instant, their eyes locked underwater. The current was strong and Fíriel was much larger than a child, but Goldberry knew she could pull her. She kept on pulling, holding, while Fíriel struggled to free herself from her grip, weaker and weaker as the air left her. She felt, more than heard a splash at the edge of the water and a moment later, Tom’s strong hands held her by the waist. Fíriel yanked her hand, finally loosing herself from Goldberry’s grip. The last thing Goldberry saw were Fíriel’s blue lips forming ‘thank you’. 

Tom pulled Goldberry back to the surface. She cried and cried, gasping loudly and shaking in Tom’s arms. “I don’t understand,” Goldberry heard a coarse, loud voice crying over and over again. She realized it was her own. She sat in the cold mud of the riverside, feeling the tingling of the first snow on her wet skin, as her sobs dwindled.

“Why?” she asked Tom. “Why? Did we not love her well?”

“Shh,” Tom said, holding her head to his shoulder. “Shh, my darling. She was fragile. She was in deep fear. You know the things she told you they had done to her.”

“We would have protected her,” Goldberry said, surprised at the spark of anger in her voice. “We did protect her.”

“You know they would come again and again. We could hold a few men off, yes, but she would never feel safe.”

“It is not fair.” Goldberry filled her lungs and stared at the water. “Why didn’t you stop flowing? I told you to stop!” She threw a fistful of mud to the silent Withywindle.

“You know you cannot bend nature that far, that fast,” Tom said.

Goldberry rose to her feet and stared at him coldly. “You should not have held me.”

Tom nodded. “Perhaps. Perhaps I should have let you go with her down the sinkhole, let you watch her drown, be torn by the rocks. Would you like that?”

“I could have held her!”

“You could not, darling.” Tom rose and tried to hold Goldberry. She stepped back from him. “You could not, River Daughter. Námo himself called her to her final shelter.”

Goldberry turned her back to him and walked furiously all the way back to her home. Upon shutting the door with satisfying force, she looked at Fíriel’s embroidery on her chair by the fire, and at that tree that Tom had brought. They had been so happy. But Fíriel could not understand her own beauty. She had died never understanding how her smiles glowed. Goldberry fell to her knees before the tree and cried again, until all her strength had left her. She did not say a word when, much later, Tom picked her up and took her to bed. For many days she did not speak.

Tom brought Fíriel back. He claimed the body many miles downstream, revealing the cruelty to which she had been treated to all of Orodril’s subjects who would listen. Then he took her home. Goldberry dressed her in the extravagant wedding dress, covering the bruised flesh with blue and green silk. She tied it at the waist with the ribbons Fíriel had loved so much and pinned the brooch in shades of blue over her heart. Fíriel had loved that jewel dearly, as it was the only gift from her father she had, a rich offering upon her coming of age, made in the south with lapis-lazuli, sapphires, topaz and diamond shards.

“Her uncle’s tomb is close by,” she said at last to Tom.

He nodded. “I had thought of that.”

He carried her in his arms all the way, and Goldberry followed. She had loved that woman. She had loved the glow of kindness emanating from her soul. She had loved the warm laughter that came when she least expected it. She had loved the tender care Fíriel had placed in everything, from her delicate embroideries to her sweet love-making. But she had not understood Fíriel. She had not realized how little love Fíriel had for herself. She remembered Fíriel talking about the absent father, like her own, and the demanding mother, and at the time, she had felt deep empathy. She had not realized, that, unlike herself, Fíriel, had not come to find her own strength. The lover who had betrayed her, the violence that had been perpetuated on her, all those things had eroded Fíriel’s attachment to life, and her love had not been enough to hold her.

As Tom deposited Fíriel’s body inside the barrow, Goldberry cried again, this time softly. Tom placed a hand on her waist and they left.

“All those times when she asked me how could I love her…” she said. “I rarely answered, and when I did, I jested or took her to bed. I did not know what to say.”

“She knew you loved her,” Tom said. “Goldberry. Let her go. Come home.”

Goldberry shook her head. “This is a sombre place. I am glad that her spirit is free.”

As Tom pushed the heavy stone to cover the entrance, a shy sunbeam hit Fíriel’s brooch, scattering a multitude of blues on the ceiling of the vault. Goldberry wondered if that light was not a simile to Fíriel’s soul – beautiful but scattered, fragile, ephemeral.

Tom came to her side and kissed the top of her hair. “We shall remember her, her fair soul, her tenderness.”

Goldberry looked up to him. “We shall, evermore.”

_Finis  
August 2015_

**Author's Note:**

> Argeleb I became king of Arthedain in 1349. “No descendants of Isildur left remained in Cardolan and Rhudaur and Argeleb I of Arthedain claimed lordship over all of former Arnor.”
> 
> While researching for this fic, I stumbled upon this little fictional piece, [The Rise and Fall of Calimendil, Fifth King of Cardolan - Comprising the war between Cardolan and Rhudaur, and the subsequent disaster of Cameth Brin](http://www.theonering.com/reading-room/stories/the-rise-and-fall-of-calimendil-fifth-king-of-cardolan-comprising-the-war-between-cardolan-and-rhudaur-and-the-subsequent-disaster-of-cameth-brin-chapter-twenty), which makes me smile and want to write fanfic for it. However, my piece did not drink from it, except some fictional names (Fíriel, Orodril, Tarandil…), because I liked them. :D
> 
> “with blue stones, many-shaded like flax-flowers or the wings of blue butterflies” is a direct quote from The Fellowship of the Ring.


End file.
